39. Chapter Thirty-nine (continued)

Well! she washed up the breakfast cups, chatting away the whole
time, and telling Tom all sorts of anecdotes about the brass-and-
copper founder; put everything in its place; made the room as neat
as herself;--you must not suppose its shape was half as neat as hers
though, or anything like it--and brushed Tom's old hat round and
round and round again, until it was as sleek as Mr Pecksniff. Then
she discovered, all in a moment, that Tom's shirt-collar was frayed
at the edge; and flying upstairs for a needle and thread, came
flying down again with her thimble on, and set it right with
wonderful expertness; never once sticking the needle into his face,
although she was humming his pet tune from first to last, and
beating time with the fingers of her left hand upon his neckcloth.
She had no sooner done this, than off she was again; and there she
stood once more, as brisk and busy as a bee, tying that compact
little chin of hers into an equally compact little bonnet; intent
on bustling out to the butcher's, without a minute's loss of time;
and inviting Tom to come and see the steak cut, with his own eyes.
As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they trotted, arm-in-
arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what a quiet
street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy
situation.

To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block,
and give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly.
It was agreeable, too--it really was--to see him cut it off, so
smooth and juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the
knife was large and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was
delicacy of touch, clearness of tone, skillful handling of the
subject, fine shading. It was the triumph of mind over matter;
quite.

Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped
about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the
butcher had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine
upon it. When he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket
awkwardly, he begged to be allowed to do it for him; 'for meat,' he
said with some emotion, 'must be humoured, not drove.'